


A Father's Prayer

by thesparklingone



Series: For Then, For Now, For Always: Estimeric Week 2020 [7]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: A little angst?, Character Study, Estimeric Week (Final Fantasy XIV), Estimeric Week 2020, M/M, Mostly fluff?, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-15
Updated: 2020-08-15
Packaged: 2021-03-05 21:01:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25911784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesparklingone/pseuds/thesparklingone
Summary: Alberic sends a silent prayer to Halone, one of the few he’s made in earnest since the day Ferndale burned.Let them find their joy, O Blessed Fury.It is all too rare a thing in Ishgard.(Written for the Day 7 prompt. Free day!)
Relationships: Aymeric de Borel/Estinien Wyrmblood
Series: For Then, For Now, For Always: Estimeric Week 2020 [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1872139
Comments: 16
Kudos: 64
Collections: Estimeric Week 2020





	A Father's Prayer

**Author's Note:**

> And to wrap up Estimeric Week, please have some bittersweet fluff. :)

Ser Alberic saves all of Estinien’s letters, not that he sends many. He understands that his adopted son is busy now, a lancer of the Temple Knights, doggedly training to become a Knight Dragoon in proper. Alberic well knows what that is like, and understands that it leaves little time for writing home. Regardless, he cannot help but reminisce wistfully over his morning cup of tea, the little cottage they once shared so still and quiet now that he again lives alone. Alberic finds he misses the patter of feet in the hallway, of plates clinking in the sink. Estinien had never much been a talker but he misses his voice, too, the one he witnessed crack and deepen and grow rough with adulthood. Thus, it is with a joyful heart that Alberic pops the seal on the plain brown envelope, addressed to him in Estinien’s distinct and uneven handwriting, and reads that his son has been granted leave in two weeks’ time, and will be coming to visit.

When the letter mentions he will be bringing a friend with him, Alberic’s eyebrows arch nearly into his hairline. Estinien has never really had any friends. Has never really seemed to have any interest in making them, even.

Alberic rests his chin on his hand and lets his eyes wander over the view out the window, the Coerthan Highlands in early spring. It shall be an interesting visit, at least, he thinks. He is looking forward to it.

When Estinien arrives Alberic insists on hugging him. Estinien flushes and grumbles, leans down to encircle Alberic only timidly with his arms, his curtain of salt-white hair falling ever looser from its binding at the nape of his long neck. He dislikes such displays of affection, Alberic knows, and normally he does his best to respect it, but there are some things a father can demand, and a welcome-home hug is one of them. Despite the awkwardness of it Alberic can feel the squeeze he gets in return for his own, feel the small sigh in Estinien’s chest where Alberic’s ear presses against it.

It is good to have him back.

Released, Estinien motions to introduce his companion—the friend he has, indeed, brought home to visit—and immediately Alberic is struck, because the young man before him is truly, honestly, striking, in a way that Alberic is certain turns every lady’s head in Ishgard.

Every lady’s, and maybe no small number of men’s, as well.

He is Ser Aymeric de Borel, and the name sparks a flicker of a memory, sounds familiar somehow, but he can’t place it and isn’t going to try right now. Ser Aymeric smiles warmly—goodness, that smile, in that face, Alberic has never been tempted by other men but even he can think of no way to describe it but _unbearably attractive_ —and shakes his hand, thanking him for hosting and saying what an honor it is to make the acquaintance of Ishgard’s most recent Azure Dragoon. Alberic laughs good-naturedly, politely waves off the compliments, ushers the young men inside and bids them be at ease.

Over dinner he watches them both. Aymeric is charming and beautifully mannered, clearly highborn, a nobleman in the best iteration of the form. His electric blue eyes dance with mirth, his white teeth flash with smiles and laughter. He listens with attentiveness and grace, and is quick with both courtesy and wit. Estinien is quiet, as is normal, but not sullen, as is somewhat less normal. Instead, he is alert and thoughtful. His wry sense of humor shines in the words he does speak, a dry remark here, a cutting observation there. He makes Aymeric laugh often, and Alberic notices the way those bright eyes linger on Estinien’s face, notices the way his radiant smile softens fondly whenever Estinien’s voice rises amongst the three of them.

 _I wonder,_ he thinks.

But the mystery is not his to unravel.

In the morning he makes hotcakes, rustic and hearty, and a huge pot of tea. Aymeric apparently likes his sweet, just a tad, and Estinien teases mercilessly that they, poor lowborns, even a retired Azure Dragoon, have no such refinements as _birch syrup_ about them. Aymeric blushes—a rather comely thing for the young man to do—and murmurs that the honey they do have is more than adequate. Superior even, as it is local, collected from the skep the previous summer, with the unique tang and spice of the wildflowers whose nectar became it.

Estinien grins at Aymeric’s embarrassment, pokes fun at his friend’s well-practiced deferral, comments on the talent of his wordsmithing. Something wily and covetous sparkles deep in his dark blue eyes.

Alberic wonders again.

After breakfast, Alberic shoos them out of the house. They are restless, boisterous, too bursting with vitality to be contained indoors on this lovely vernal morning. They are off to explore the hills around the Observatorium like boys half their age, impish and cheeky, Estinien doubtless eager to boast his knowledge of the local flora and fauna, much as he may pretend otherwise. In their absence Alberic busies himself with his routine, chores and obligations, chattering with his neighbors. He ambles about the little settlement with his hands in his pockets. The weather is divine, it is good to be outdoors.

The young men tumble back to the cottage for lunch, flushed from the sun. Aymeric is radiant—Alberic is beginning to suspect that such a mien is his default—and Estinien seems, if not happy, then proud and somehow pleased in a way Alberic isn’t quite certain he ever has been in all the time he’s known him.

 _See, my boy?_ he wants to say. _‘Tis a worthy endeavor, friendship._

But he holds his tongue. He knows well what the response would be were he to actually speak what he’s thought and smiles over it to himself, regardless.

In the afternoon they spar in the field behind the house, lance to sword and shield—all wooden, practice things, of course. Alberic watches in the window. It is not really quite warm enough to have it open yet, but he does anyway. A mug of tea warms his hands, his keen veteran’s eyes following every move.

Estinien’s forms he knows well; they are his own, the ones he trained him in for nearly a decade, but since his enlistment they have evolved, grown ever more fluid. He is laying claim to the techniques, imbuing them with his own unique grace and grasp. He is young and rough and unrefined but there is power there, the undeniable skill that is evidently the reason he was able to defeat the dragon in the cave—with the aid of a well-timed arrow from Ser Aymeric, of course. Alberic had heard that tale in full over dinner.

Aymeric himself is a different sort of fighter. No lancer he, but a knight in truth, he waits in ready stance, shield to the fore, sword grasped lightly in his other hand. He is defensive, reactive, his keen eyes follow Estinien’s thrusts and feints, his leaps and rolls, and he meets them doggedly, resolutely, unyieldingly. He is waiting for his opening with the patience of a saint, and Alberic can see how that will serve him well in the battles that he will face in the future.

The moment comes, Estinien strikes, and Aymeric makes his move. There is the crack of wood against wood, the shouts of adrenaline thrill, and they are sparring in truth, blows ringing, steps dancing, each searching for the opening that will give them victory over the other. ‘Tis a glorious, riveting display, and Alberic cannot help but sink into the memories of his own such experiences, of the rush and revel, of the sheer satisfaction of strength and exertion that left him panting and elated, and more often than not, in his halcyon days, victorious.

It is Estinien who is victorious this day, as well.

He breaches Aymeric’s defense with a leap and a jab, the parry is insufficient and the wooden sword spins out of the knight’s hand as he topples to his back, softly winded, Estinien triumphant astride him, wooden lance point at his neck.

The quiet after the bout is a heavy, laden thing.

They are handsome young men, the two of them, though Aymeric more classically so. Estinien has his own magnetism nonetheless. Many times has Alberic noted the way the village girls watched him as he grew into himself through adolescence and into adulthood. He has his doubts as to whether Estinien had ever noticed, and if he did, whether he had cared.

He has his doubts about what is noticed, now, as well.

Straddled across Aymeric’s chest, exultant in victory, the lancer’s eyes are locked with the knight’s. Sweat rolls down their flushed faces, matting Estinien’s silver fringe to his forehead and sticking Aymeric’s black curls to his temples. Their ribs expand and contract, the shared huff of their labored breaths loud in the still spring air. Where he lies in the grass, Aymeric is wreathed in wildflowers: anemone and pearlwort and chickweed. What a sight it must be from Estinien’s vantage.

Alberic watches as Aymeric relaxes, calloused fingers curling where his hands are splayed either side of his head. His face softens and his lips curve into a smile.

“You win, my friend.”

Estinien’s grin is rakish and triumphant, full of wild avarice.

Alberic sends a silent prayer to Halone, one of the few he’s made in earnest since the day Ferndale burned.

 _Let them find their joy, O Blessed Fury._ It is all too rare a thing in Ishgard.

Estinien clambers off his friend, rises to his feet. Offers a hand in assistance. Aymeric grasps it and is pulled to standing. Nearly nose to nose, for the span of a heartbeat they hesitate.

Then they are laughing, and Aymeric is retrieving his practice sword and shield, and they are returning to the house to wash and change and ready themselves for supper. Alberic quietly closes the window and slips from it, a small smile on his mouth as he rinses his mug in the sink. They have long roads before them in life, he knows. They are soldiers. They fight for Ishgard. They have killed and will kill again. They have watched their comrades die and will do so again. They may neither of them live to see another spring.

But for now they can revel in the sunlight and their youth. They can laugh and break bread and bloom their steady friendship. Perhaps bloom something more. Even ensnared in the claws of a long and greedy war, hope yet springs eternal. The will to live is a tenacious thing.

The prayer again finds Alberic’s lips. _O Halone…_

Will She listen? Only time will tell.

**Author's Note:**

> Participating in Estimeric Week has been SUCH A BLAST. A great challenge and I've met some great people and been lucky enough to read some wonderful things. Thank you so much to the organizers and to everyone who's participated, I've loved reading your stories and seeing your artwork and screenshots. Thanks for feeding my obsession, hope I've been able to feed yours too. <3


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